"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Is It True?

Seneca, Trojan Women 371-408 (tr. John G. Fitch):

Is it true, or a tale to deceive the faint-hearted, that spirits live on after bodies are buried, when the spouse has placed a hand over the eyes, and the final day has blocked out future suns,and the grim urn has confined the ashes?

Is nothing gained in yielding the soul to death? Are the wretched faced with further life?Or do we die wholly, and does no part of us survive, once the spirit carried on the fugitive breath has mingled with the mist and and receded into the air,and the kindling torch has touched the naked flesh?

As the twelve constellations fly at whirlwind speed,as the lord of the stars hastens apace to roll on the centuries, in the way that Hecate hurries to run on her slanting arcs: so we all head for death. No longer does one who has reached the pools that bind the gods' oathsexist at all. As smoke from burning fires fades away, soiling the air for a brief space; as the leaden clouds that we saw just now are scattered by the onset of northern Boreas: so this spirit that rules us will flow away.

Death is indivisible, destructive to the bodyand not sparing the soul. Taenarus, and the kingdom under its harsh lord, and Cerberus guarding the entrance with its unyielding gate —hollow rumours, empty words, a tale akin to a troubled dream.

Is it a Truth? or Fiction blinds Our fearful Minds? That when to Earth we Bodies give, Souls yet do live? That when the Wife hath clos'd with Cries The Husband's Eyes, When the last fatal Day of Light Hath spoil'd our Sight, And when to Dust and Ashes turn'd Our Bones are urn'd; Souls stand yet in no need at all Of Funeral. But that a longer Life with Pain They still retain? Or dye we quite? Nor aught we have Survives the Grave? When like to Smoak immix'd with Skies, The Spirit flies. And Funeral Tapers are apply'd To th'naked Side. Whate'er Sol rising does disclose, Or setting shows; Whate'er the Sea with flowing Waves Or ebbing laves; Old Time, that moves with winged pace, Doth soon deface. With the same Swiftness the Signs rowl Round, round the Pole, With the same Course Day's Ruler steers The fleeting Years; With the same Speed th'oblique-pac'd Moon Does wheeling run: We all are hurried to our Fates, Our Lives last Dates; And when we reach the Stygian Shore, Are then no more. As Smoak, which springs from Fire, is soon Dispers'd and gone; Or Clouds which we but now beheld, By Winds dispel'd; The Spirit, which informs this Clay, So fleets away. Nothing is after Death; and this Too, Nothing is: The Gaol, or the extreamest space Of a swift Race. The Covetous their Hopes forbear, The Sad their Fear. Ask'st thou, whene'er thou com'st to dye, Where thou shalt lye? Where lye th'unborn. Away Time rakes us, Then Chaos takes us. Death's Individual; like kind To Body or Mind. Whate'er of Taenarus they sing, And Hell's fierce King, How Cerberus still guards the Port O'th' Stygian Court, All are but idle Rumours found, And empty Sound; Like the vain Fears of Melancholy Dreams, and fabulous Folly.

Paraphrase of lines 397-408 by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680):

After death nothing is, and nothing, death,The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.Let the ambitious zealot lay asideHis hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;Let slavish souls lay by their fearNor be concerned which way nor whereAfter this life they shall be hurled.Dead, we become the lumber of the world,And to that mass of matter shall be sweptWhere things destroyed with things unborn are kept.Devouring time swallows us whole;Impartial death confounds body and soul.For Hell and the foul fiend that rulesGod's everlasting fiery jails(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,Are senseless stories, idle tales,Dreams, whimseys, and no more.